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We were sagged in a pair of folding chairs in the middle of the gymnasium, Eleven-Year-Old Tony and I, revisiting the details of the Neil Armstrong biography we'd finished during a previous lesson, when he jolted upright with a clear intent to speak.

Me: "What is it?"

Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "If Neil's flying lessons cost nine dollars an hour and he only made forty cents an hour at the pharmacy, it would have taken him almost twenty-three hours to earn enough money for just one lesson."

Me: "That's great math, Eleven-Year-Old Tony!"

Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "That's a crock of shit is what it is!"

Me: "Pardon me?"

Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "My little sister swallows more money in an hour than Neil earned. Why didn't he just ask for a raise?"

Me: "It's not that simple, Eleven-Year-Old Tony. He was only sixteen at that point. And you have to remember, forty cents was worth a lot more back then than it is now."